


so hold my hand I'll walk with you my dear

by starraya



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, the time of the doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'After Trenzalore, The Doctor promised himself a few things. No visits to the past. No calls to Luna University after one of her lectures. No cross-stitch of timelines. Nothing. But, now, he –- this he -- is never going to see her again, now the ‘what if’ is gone from even his daydreams his hearts quicken at the thought of her.'<br/>Clara isn't the only one Eleven calls from Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so hold my hand I'll walk with you my dear

On the third ring the telephone connects.

The Doctor resists the urge to lean against the TARDIS interior and give some relief to his aching limbs as he waits. He should use them while he can. They won’t be his soon. They will be another’s. He’s coming. He can feel every cell becoming young again and ready to be written with a new story. Only he doesn’t want to be on the last page of his alone. He doesn’t want it to end at all. Everything gone at the shut of a book. After Trenzalore, he promised himself a few things. No visits to the past. No calls to Luna University after one of her lectures. No cross-stitch of timelines. Nothing. But, now, he -- _this he --_ is never going to see her again, now the ‘what if’ is gone from even his daydreams his hearts quicken at the thought of her. One he's clung whilst making his way back to the privacy of his blue-boxed home after that miraculous burst of regeneration energy that started it all off.

 _His wife_. _The last of the Ponds._

He swears he can hear the soft brush of blond curls against the speaker end, the ring of alarms or gunfire or yells from somewhere that always follow her or the turn of paper on paper, if he’s interrupted her from writing or reading something. Perhaps it's just their diary or perhaps just the marking of a student’s paper. That’s her breath, he is sure, uneven from running or kissing another him and laced with tiny particles of hallucinogens from her lipstick or with the scent of wine –- they're breaths on red-painted lips maybe indented with the coy bite of her teeth on her lower lip, one that's just about to curl into a smile at his voice.

“This is Stormcage Containment Facility, Miss Song cannot be contacted right now,” he hears a Stormcage guard gruffly respond. Rebelliously, the Doctor’s body slumps back against the TARDIS inside doors for support. He never imputed any number; the TARDIS just instinctively rung her. The Doctor thought his heaving breaths and struggling gait would be enough. But maybe the old girl didn’t know how much he needed one voice. Not her younger one in prison, but his wife. Aged and beautiful and knowing. Just knowing that he needs her to tell him he is alright when he will never ask. There’s not the background command of “Give it here. Someone needs me so unless you want to lose your job in as long as it takes to finish this call, let me see who it is!" imagined or heard at his ears until-

“Hello?” River asks, “Who’s there?” She's not as old as he expected. She’s not young enough to expect it’s him though.

His breath catches in his throat. A tear slips his eye. At her voice he manages a cracked: “Oh, Melody Pond. Daughter of the Ponds and time itself." He speaks the words almost to himself.

“Doctor? What is it? What’s the matter?” He props himself up with his arm to stand at the urgency in her questions.

The fear invades his voice reducing it to a tremble., "I just . . . I can’t do it alone.”

“What?” But she’s already guessed and doesn’t know what else to say apart from that useless syllable.

“He’s coming River, this new me and I’m . . . I’m just going.” He holds the phone tighter to his ear as if to press her closer to him.

“You’re right here, my love. You’re always be right here,” sinking down on her bed with eyes filling up, River assures him.

“Not for long.” He watches as his arm is swathed in amber - a temporary fix. Soon, he will be young again. Then, soon, maybe not at all.

“Always, Doctor.” This time her voice cracks.

“River, you know, you know it’s not like that.”

“No. . . It’s not. You're right," she agrees, "but I’m here.” She knows it's nearly a lie since she’s only a voice, but what else do you tell a Timelord that isn’t dying whilst a man is?

“Always?” As his feet are too bathed in the horrible amber glow of his people The Doctor looks down to the floor. Whilst, in another universe, another century, River trails her fingertips over the diary next to her on her bed.

“Completely,” she amends. Silence.

“I’m going now," The Doctor exhales deeply, "he’s nearly here.”

“Say 'hello' to him will you, from me. Oh, and don’t you be out too long,” she warns as she softly touches the wetness on her cheeks yet doesn't wipe it away. “And you find someone to have a good time with while you’re out. Don’t scare them too much, mind. Give them a goodbye at least.” _Whoever you’re travelling with, whoever you’re running with. Whoever you’ve found or are going to find, my love._

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll be back by twelve," he promises falsely. Even though there’s no one to see it, The Doctor forces a smile at the banter.

“You better," River replies and, suddenly, he doesn’t need to force it again. Unbeknownst to him no creases deepen in his face this time when he does. He’s halfway young again.

“River, I--” But a thousand ends to that sentence die.

“Goodnight, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.” The line goes dead. He doesn’t know whether Sexy or River did it. Still holding the receiver, he nods to the box. The line connects to an earth phone Clara will pick up in the future. She shouldn’t feel alone after he’s gone. He owes her that at the very least. God knows what he will treat her like. The Doctor opens the TARDIS doors returning the phone to its hold. His tremulous fingers slip over it. It’s left hanging for Clara to put back. The not-so-Last-of-the-Timelords just wants to go back inside to his home. It’s nearly time.

Back in Stormcage, the guard doesn’t reprimand his notoriously brazen, just-threatened-him prisoner for talking too long or demand the phone back when she settles it next to her on her bed, numb. In fact, he hasn't tried to talk once throughout her conservation.

“Miss Song?” The guard ventures. The tears roll down her face into her lap to sink into the diary she’s picked up to cradle. However, she looks up to stare straight at the guard; her tone is unwavering when she tells him like one would tell a child: “A very good friend just fell asleep.” How she’s going to stare so easily into the face of her young husband next time he calls for her is still to be answered. Sometimes she swears that man kills her slowly. Reaching down, River pulls a rucksack from under her bed.

“Song? Where are you--”

“I need some air. And, a drink.”

* * *

 Of course, The Doctor never does –- not that River expected him to -- remember to even call her in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Little Talks' by Of Monster and Men.  
> I apologize if I've messed up the formatting or tagging in anyway. It's my first story on the site. I've been reading on here for a while and felt I had to give a little bit back.


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